Miracle at St Margaret's
by Airgead
Summary: Set on Christmas Eve during series 4, this one-shot sees Malcolm musing on the year that was, while paying a late night visit to St Margarets' at Westminster. He encounters an unusual personage while doing so...one he has met before. Can be read as a stand-alone story, or as part of the world of Hook, line, and sinker. Kudos/BBC owns what's theirs, the rest is mine.


**A/N: This one-shot stands alone, but can be read as a companion piece to **_**Hook, line and sinker**_**, in which Malcolm also visits St Margarets'. It's my concession to Christmas (and came in a flash while I was doing the washing-up tonight). Season's Greetings to all my readers and reviewers – Airgead ;)**

It is very late on Christmas Eve when I finally shut down my systems for the night, and slowly stand up, easing the accumulated aches and kinks out of muscles too long held tense, and a spine knotted with days of hunching in the observation van, or over my monitors on the Grid. Everyone else has long gone, but I had still had work to complete - CCTV footage to be logged, recordings to be saved, evidence of our back-door hacks into the nation's security systems to be wiped out…a senior technical officer's work is never done. It was a close-run thing, this particular operation, but we got there first in the end, Adam only just managing to find and defuse the bomb hidden in the midst of the bustling last-minute shopping crowds on Oxford Street..._If the public really knew what we deal with on a regular basis, no-one would ever set foot outside, _I think wearily as I shrug into my overcoat and head for the pods, depressed and disheartened.

I am exhausted, but at the same time I am not yet ready to collect my old silver Rover from the staff garage and head home. I need to go somewhere peaceful, somewhere safe, and settle my thoughts before I sleep, and I do not feel like facing the barrage of Mother's enquiries; she had called, not long since, to ask if I would be home in time to take her to the midnight service, or not, and for once in my life, I had told her, _Not_; sniffing her displeasure, she had hung up. I just can't, not tonight, not now; not after almost witnessing a colleague die beneath the bright Christmas lights of London. Adam had come so very close to death, before cheating it yet again…one day, I fear, that freakish split-second luck of his will run out, and I fervently hope that I will not be on the Grid when it does; tonight had been too close…I'm still shaking slightly as I try to do up the buttons on my coat. _What if I hadn't…No! don't even think it_, I will myself.

There have been so many losses this year; Zoe, exiled forever; Danny, murdered, Harry's old friend and boss Clive McTaggart, with whom I worked during my first year on the job, and as fine a man as one could wish to meet, killed senselessly by our own people…and tonight, of all nights, I seem to hear their ghostly voices in the shadowed halls of Thames House, as I let myself out of a secret entrance, and stand for a moment, breathing in the crisp, clear night air, clean and sharp in my lungs after the carefully controlled climate of the Grid. A bit too sharp, in fact, and I hunt through my pockets for my inhaler, and tuck my scarf more closely about my throat, before setting off for Westminster, and the lovely old church of St Margarets'.

It is my habit, whenever I feel rattled and at odds with the world, to seek out the peaceful interior of a church, and there compose my mind, and shrive my soul, before going back out to face the world once more. It is a practice shaped as much by my upbringing as the only son of the village vicar, back in Dunvant, as by my own faith, tremulous and far from perfect though it be, and constantly eroded by the grim realities of the world we live in and the job I do. I am particularly fond of St Margarets'; not only is it conveniently close by, but it is beautiful in a way that the vast and awe-inspiring Abbey next door will never be, with its white Gothic arches and old chandeliers throwing mellow golden light on the intricately decorated rood screen, and striking glimmers of colour from the stained glass windows.

My favourite window is the one commemorating John Milton, the great poet, blind yet dictating his timeless words to his daughter…the truth will out, as will beauty, and knowledge, and wisdom, no matter the circumstances. It heartens me just to look at it. Besides, there is another reason I have chosen this church, of all the churches in the city; a few months back, just after Danny's death, I had a most unusual encounter there, one which to this day I cannot quite explain, but which left me feeling obscurely comforted; thinking of all these things, I hasten my step.

Even though it is very late, the little door within the main church door is still open, and the church is not in complete darkness. I know that there is no midnight service here; that is held in the Abbey instead, but on this night, the parish has seen to it that all the churches of Westminster stand open, in commemoration of a time more than two thousand years ago, when a young couple, far from home and weary, were turned away in their hour of need from every inn and place to stay, until they finally took shelter in a stable…

Sliding into a pew at the back, I take a moment to look around at the dimly lit surroundings, the richly embroidered hangings with their familiar Christmas figures: the Nativity, the Adoration of the Magi, the Herald Angels and the Shepherds, awestruck with amazement by the sudden blaze of music and light in the night…closing my eyes, I allow my restless mind to wander, and am taken back to the Christmases of my childhood in Wales. My father, putting on his brightest vestments, but still with fingers that shook from nerves after half a lifetime in the pulpit; being allowed to stay up late for the midnight service, well wrapped in duffle-coat and scarf to protect my throat from the night air; the Christmas morning service, which always felt like a party, as Father didn't give a sermon, but instead led the congregation in the beautiful and well-loved Welsh hymns and carols, his fine baritone voice distinctive above the rest. And then, walking up to Grandfather and Grandmamma's big house for the feast of goose and chestnut stuffing, glazed ham and roast potatoes, and inexplicably, Brussels sprouts, which I loathed and would convey by sleight of hand into my pockets, to be gotten rid of at a later date, followed by rich Christmas pudding and brandy custard, finding sixpence in my slice if I was lucky, and finally the moment I had been waiting for all year: the presents.

Books and chemistry sets, Meccano and one marvellous year, a crystal radio kit…the Christmas tree I had decorated with Grandmamma a few days earlier scenting the drawing room with the resinous, clean fragrance of pine, and in the grate, there would be the Yule log, crackling and casting flickering shadows…flickering shadows, in fact, like the ones I seem to see against my eyelids now. The air in the church has become very still, become warmer, somehow, and the quality of light has changed; opening my eyes, I see that it has taken on an orange hue, yet somehow lessened in intensity too, like firelight…and sitting beside me is an old gentleman, smiling at me with shrewd, but kind, brown eyes, and wearing an old-fashioned, full cut suit, with a gold watch-chain looped through his waistcoat, an iron ring of keys in one hand like a churchwarden's…I smile back, soaking up the extraordinary sense of calm and peace I feel in his presence now, as I had at our previous meeting. After an indeterminate amount of time has passed, he speaks.

"You're back, then. Reckon it's a while since you've been in. Well, no one can do just what they want at the moment, what with bombings all night and air-raid sirens going off at any blessed moment… we'll just 'ave to hope that Jerry still believes in Christmas too, lad. In the last one, you know, the war to end all wars, there was an armistice at Christmas, that first year...the silence that fell across the trenches over there in France was something, all right, and coo! then there was the sound of Fritz a-singin' carols…and our lads singin' right back…they 'ave the same songs as ours, did you know?" I chuckle as I nod my head; many of our current Christmas traditions were imported from Germany by Prince Albert, two centuries ago, including the music.

Before I can reply, he continues, "For a moment there, we all thought we was going to go home, but then it started again…four more years of it...after that, I never thought there'd be another war, but here we are again. There's no understanding some things, and that's the truth. All we can do is make the best of it, stand shoulder to shoulder, and see 'em off like we did before." I blink; the last time I had spoken with this man, he had spoken of the Blitz as something that was long in the past, but tonight, he is speaking of it as something that is happening now. I look carefully at him, but can see nothing different in the seamed, kindly face and those twinkling eyes; old people, I remind myself, sometimes lose track of time, and confuse present with past: there's nothing unusual about it. "So, what brings you here tonight?" he asks, and I gaze at the stone-flagged floor between my feet, unwilling to tell him why. "C'mon, lad, out with it. You've got the weight of the world on your shoulders. I know the look; you see it a lot these days…" I am wryly amused that he thinks of me as a lad: in five days' time, I will have my forty-eighth birthday, but inside, if I am honest, I still think of myself as a little boy, scared of the monsters under the bed…and there are so many monsters, in this world…"Let's be having it," he encourages, "you can tell me anything; there's not much I've not heard, one way or another."

And so I do. I tell him about Adam, and the bomb, and how close he came to dying, and how afraid I had been as I gave him the instructions to defuse the damn thing, that I would get it fatally wrong; I conclude by saying that I am a coward, my eyes fixed on my shoes. He listens, nodding in all the right places, and even though I have just breached every security protocol and the Official Secrets Act, to boot, by speaking of these things, somehow it doesn't seem to matter; the wise brown eyes already hold a myriad of secrets, and I know that mine will be just one more that he keeps safe.

As I finish recounting the evening's events, I can hear a far-off thudding noise, like the muffled sound of fireworks, and somewhere close by I hear a siren; it must be the police, or an ambulance, I think, as it swells and then fades away. The old man lifts his head, and his eyes take on the slightly unfocused look of someone listening to a distant noise. "Nowhere near here, Lord be praised, but the poor sods in the East End will be taking a pasting, unless our lads get there first…" He looks back at me, and sits up straighter as he considers what I have just told him. "The way I see it, this chap Adam, he trusted you enough to put his life in your 'ands when he was snipping those wires. That's good enough for me, mate. You're no coward – no soldier worth 'is salt would trust someone who gets the collywobbles. An' I'll tell you something else – we're all frightened, but we learn to live with it, or else how would we ever get out of our beds in the morning?" I give him a half-smile of gratitude at this charitable assessment, and he beams back at me approvingly.

"That's more like it. Tell you what, how about we 'ave a bit of a sing, you and me. Nothin' like it for putting heart in a man." He stands up, and I rise too; he only comes up to my shoulder, and yet he seems so much…bigger, somehow, and it doesn't seem ridiculous at all that we should be preparing to sing in a deserted church at a few minutes to midnight."There's _Onward Christian Soldiers_, that's always a good one to march to, or there's the Navy one about those in peril on the sea…but I reckon tonight we should sing somethin' proper to the occasion…how about _Silent Night_?" I smile back at him, and say, "I could sing it in German, if you'd like to sing it in English? It could be like the carols you sang in the trenches." He looks sharply at me, and I hastily explain, "My father's a vicar, and he taught me the song in the original language when I was a boy."

Satisfied with this, he nods, and leads off in a surprisingly deep voice: he sounds like Harry, on the rare occasions that he can be persuaded to sing, rich and mellifluous. I join him, singing the tenor descant as I used to in the choir at college, and our voices meld to create a sound of rare purity, the music washing through me and cleansing my world-weary soul, taking me back to my childhood…

**Silent night, Holy night**

_Stille nacht, heilige nacht,_

**All is calm, all is bright, **

_Alles schlaft, einsam wacht_

**Round yon virgin, mother and child**

_Nur das traute hochheilige Paar_

**Holy infant, so tender and mild**

_Holder Knabe im lockigen Haar_

**Sleep in heavenly peace**

_Schlaf in himmlischer Ruh_

We make our way through the second and third verses, and just as we draw to a close, bells start to peal: it's midnight, and Christmas Day is here. I look down at my companion, and he nods. "Time to be going home, lad, home to your family." He rattles his key ring to reinforce the message.

My family…when I think of my family, I don't think of Mother. Oddly enough, I think of the people I spend most of my life with: Colin, funny and wise, and my best friend in the world; Adam and Fiona, the golden spy couple of Section D, still madly in love with each other; young Jo, only just starting out in one of the most dangerous jobs in the world, but wide-eyed and innocent in so many ways; Zaf, who is as brave as a lion in the field, yet just a cocky boy at heart… and then there's Harry, the still point of our turning world, the man who _**is**_ Section D…finally, I think of Ruth, brilliant, beautiful, and not a little bonkers, and the most extraordinary woman I know…

I remember the others too: Danny, who went so bravely to his death, and saved Fiona by doing so; Zoe, cruelly betrayed by the country she had pledged to serve, sent away in disgrace, yet in the end happier, I hope, than had she stayed (I have seen the surveillance footage from Six's man in Chile, and she and Will look very well); and then there's Tom, enigmatic, conflicted, tormented Tom, who in the end could no longer play the great game of deception and manipulation, and had finally gotten out, scarred and traumatised, but alive. _Perhaps that's all that matters, _I muse, _in our line of work, that we leave it while we're still alive, to keep bright the memory of those who have died in the name of the country we love, protecting people who will never know their stories…_

The old gentleman beside me is nodding his head. "Now you're getting it, lad. We have to remember them, you and I, and do so with honour, and happiness, too, that we 'ave been so privileged as to know them." I start slightly; I hadn't been aware I was speaking aloud, and he laughs heartily at my confusion, before offering me his hand, and just as before, it is cool and dry, and strong. "Take care, lad, and Merry Christmas!" I return his wishes, and turn to leave through the little door I came in by. As I reach the entrance, I think I can smell the acrid stench of cordite and burning buildings, just for a moment, and then my nostrils are filled with the same sharp, cold, clear air of an hour or so previously, and the old gentleman, whom I could have sworn was walking beside me a second earlier, is nowhere to be seen as I step out into the night; yet from somewhere in the interior of St Margarets', I can still hear his faint laughter, as he says something my normally excellent ears strain to hear…

"_It is a fair, even-handed, noble adjustment of things, that while there is infection in disease and sorrow, there is nothing in the world so irresistibly contagious as laughter and good-humour_…"

Chuckling softly, I say to the darkness around me, "_His own heart laughed; and that was quite enough for him_." There is no reply…

Walking back to Thames House, it occurs to me that late-night bell-ringing has been banned in Westminster for decades due to the noise-pollution bylaws, and yet, I clearly heard bells at midnight, and smelled the whiff of high-explosive and felt the thudding of…shaking my head at my own overactive imagination, I turn to look back one last time at the old church, now silent and darkened except for the sanctuary lamp, burning throughout the night, keeping watch over us all.

I smile all the way home: it's Christmas, after all, and a time for joy, as well as for remembering, and the old churchwarden has shown me how to do both. I feel strangely light at heart, and as full of anticipation as any boy. As I pad upstairs in my socks, Mother wakes and calls out, "Is that you, Malcolm?" I answer in the affirmative, and she wishes me Merry Christmas, and good night; still caught up in the strangeness of the evening, I answer, grinning to myself, "_And God bless us, every one_," as my father used to say, when tucking me into bed after the midnight service before dropping a kiss on my hair, "Sleep well, my son."

For once, I do.

**A/N: The italicised quotes at the end are all from **_**A Christmas Carol**_**, by Charles Dickens.**


End file.
